The Mirror
by Elwin Ransom
Summary: A sequel.  The Republic stumbles forward to rebuild, while what remains of the Order does what it can to soldier on and the Exile, Caius Lucullus, traverses the Unknown Regions. As they struggle, a more sinister enemy than ever before eludes them...
1. Picking Up the Pieces

**Author's Note: **Well, it's been almost three years since I posted my first story (I can't believe the way time flies), and now here I'm back with a novella sequel. I don't know where this will go, or what will come of it, but I'm going to just throw caution to the wind and post it. We'll see what happens. The usual disclaimer about not owning anything follows. So, without any further ado…

* * *

_**The Mirror**_

"Battle not with monsters, lest you become a monster; and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." – Frederick Nietzsche

**Picking Up the Pieces**

Crystal blue waves lapped quietly against the idyllic shore. Smooth yellow sand was made a hardened brown by the rising tide. Two children, a boy and girl, dashed into the water, heaving their bodies against the current and then laughing wildly as it leisurely flung them back onto the solid ground.

A woman watched from afar, arms crossed, perched on a gardened veranda. She thought nothing of the misty ocean air or the crash of the waves—sounds and smells both unusual and exciting to a visitor.

The man inside her cabana was one such visitor. Having never seen the ocean, he was particularly awed by its beauty. Any such feelings, however, were not evident on his face. He sat quietly at a table, so still he could almost be mistaken for a statue. Despite the peaceful surroundings, he was uneasy. The delight he took in seeing the beach was offset by the horror of the impending conversation. He could neither focus on his objective nor appreciate the lovely setting.

The woman came and sat down at his table. Though she was unremarkable, she had a sort of indiscernible likeability that made it even harder to tell her what needed to be said. Even stranger, she was surprisingly calm.

"You really want to take my daughter away?"

"No," answered the man.

A long silence followed.

"Then what about everything you've said?"

The man sighed deeply and tried to collect his thoughts. Normally a sharp wit, he knew this was not the time for anything other than the utmost seriousness. It was not the first time he had ever tried to do this, but he secretly hoped it would be his last, though he knew otherwise.

He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table, said, "It isn't a matter of what anyone _wants _to do, miss. It's about what's best for your daughter."

"You think taking her away from her family is best?"

"Given the circumstances?" he asked in a somewhat lilting accent. "Yes…I believe it's the best thing."

He unfolded his arms and put his hand on his chin. Obscuring his rather experimental facial hair with his hand, he tried to delay long enough to find the words for his next comment.

"Your daughter," he continued, "has exhibited some strange behavior. Right?"

The woman said nothing.

"You told me that last week she vaulted her brother across the hall without so much as lifting a finger. Such…things cannot be ignored."

"But to take her away? Forever?"

"I didn't say forever. I mean only to take her away for as long as necessary. To teach her about her abilities. To teach her about the best way to live. To show her how we can help."

"To make her a warrior?" asked the woman.

"Some of us are fighters, yes. But we are foremost helpers, guardians, and philosophers. We do not seek battle."

"I see."

After another pause the woman turned to look back out at the children still playing in the sand. She slowly stood up, asked, "Would you like some more tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

She poured him a cup of steaming herbal tea that actually helped his nerves a great deal. He breathed deeply after taking a sip from it.

"They're to start kindergarten next week," she said a bit distantly. After a brief pause she turned and looked at him and asked, "You won't take both of them?"

"They boy…he does not have the same…"

"Ability?"

The man gave a conciliatory nod.

The woman thought for a moment then said, "I don't want to break them up. They're twins. They were born together. They should live together. I can't split them in half."

"They are not…one," he replied. "And your daughter has the potential to be…greater…" His words came out awkwardly. He did not know how to do this. How could he tenderly say that which no mother ever could bear to hear?

"Do you have kids?" she asked abruptly.

He was taken aback by the question. After a short silence he muttered quietly, "N-no. No I don't."

"Then you could not possibly understand."

"You're right," he admitted, "I don't. But I do not believe you fully understand what's at stake. If you keep your daughter here…she'll be stifled forever. And more than that, such untamed…power…could result in disaster."

"So you've said."

"It has happened," he replied.

They fell into quiet. The woman did not oblige his last comment with a response. There was nothing he could do now but just wait and listen.

Several minutes passed. She got up, looked about again. She turned off the whistling kettle. The man waited as wind wafted through the cabana and rustled his mildly long brown hair.

At length she turned and glared intently at him. "No," she stated with a mother's subtle force. "You can't take my daughter away."

He closed his green eyes and gestured with his hands that he had no rebuttal. "Very well," he said, standing up, "It is your choice alone." She stood still as he moved towards the step and out towards the sand. "Thank you for your hospitality, miss." He tried to force a smile as he left. She simply nodded as he walked out.

The man trudged through the sand towards a concrete path that streaked towards the grass. Sand peppered his face as he walked. He followed the path until he got to a group of palm trees shading a solitary figure next to a large vehicle.

"Hey, Nantaris. How'd it go?" asked the figure under the tree. Technically a man, he was actually closer to a boy, though he would undoubtedly claim otherwise.

"I can't do it, Dustil," he answered bitterly. "I just can't. Damn it all. How are we supposed to look a woman in the eyes and tell her we want to take her kid? How is it that we've ever done that? Is it even _possible_?

"Apparently."

"I'm beginning to think that rebuilding the Order is even more difficult than defending it."

Nantaris moved to get into the speeder. Dustil swung the other door open and commented, "I think that those are two sides of the same coin."

"I sure as hell don't want to rebuild it," said Nantaris. "You want to? You can go do it."

"I'm not the Grand Master. This is your job," said Dustil as he sat down.

"Why do I even keep you around?"

"Because Atton annoys you?"

"Aye—good point. I'm bringing Mira with me next time."

* * *

It had been a few months since the great battle raged over Coruscant. A strong and terrible empire, led by a vicious and bloodthirsty leader—the Emperor Ardashir—had violently thrust its way to the capital world. The Republic no sooner learned of the existence of this malevolent force than did its supposedly impregnable homeworld come under siege.

Only the heroic sacrifices of the Jedi Revan and Bastila prevented the wholesale destruction of the planet at the hands of the Sith invaders. As they gave their lives to destroy the Emperor, the ships bound to his life were exposed to counterattack. The last second reinforcements of the Mandalorians provided just enough force to repel the invaders. The Republic survived to limp onwards for another day.

Shattered and broken, the Jedi Order was all but extinct. Once an almost omnipotent force of justice and hope, only five now remained, and of those five, only two—the Exile Caius Lucullus and the Grand Master Valiens Nantaris—had actually been trained from childhood. Of the other three, two were once Sith, now reformed, and one was a bounty hunter for most of her young life. The long arduous project of rebuilding now fell to them.

It was not something Nantaris wanted to do. He had no experience, and thus far hated every second of it. He had not been able to recruit one new child, and he doubted he ever would. Not even the tremendous fame he was awarded after the battle gave him the edge to recruit anyone new. He did morph into something of a celebrity, but only against his own wishes.

He and Caius had been elevated to near celestial status for their roles in saving the Republic. Caius for his odds-defying slaying of Ardashir, and Nantaris for his determined and courageous defense of the Jedi Temple and all the refugees within it.

But in spite of this honor, this ubiquitous reverence that showed him wherever he went, he could not start rebuilding properly. He hated it. He wondered if this were some sort of sign that he should not continue.

"Is it even worth trying?" he asked Mira. She stood beside him as he looked out from his perch in the disturbingly vacant Jedi Temple. He was watching the speeders skim by like disks slicing through the air.

"Yes," she stated emphatically. "It is."

"Why?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"I don't know."

Quiet.

"Lass," he began, "I do not know how to do it. I don't even know where to begin. Say we even found some children to train. Should we? Who would do it? Me? You? Should we discard the old teachings that built and then allowed the Order to be destroyed?"

"There isn't anyone else _to _do it. You can't just swing back and forth. If you want to rebuild the order then you have to do it. It's really pretty simple."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"You already know the answer, I think."

"I know, lass. I wish you weren't right all the time. But I just don't know if I can recruit any of these kids. I've tried eight times now and we haven't gotten a single Force sensitive child."

Nantaris turned around, letting his back face the incredible panoramic view of Coruscant that the Councilroom offered. Lost in thought for only a moment, the door opened and a Mandalorian officer, clad head to toe in red armor, marched in with a distinct air of superiority.

"Grand Master," bellowed the soldier curtly.

"What is it?" Nantaris responded in kind.

"Jaeger's brigade finally smashed through that hotel with the Sith in it. They've secured the area and I've been instructed to tell you that there were no Sith survivors."

"And so the last one falls."

"Yes…sir."

Several pockets of Sith, stranded in their planet-wide invasion once the battle swung in favor of the Republic, took refuge in many of the decrepit or unused buildings in Coruscant. Some of the Mandalorians—those who did not pursue the enemy into the depths of space—stayed on planet to eradicate them. It took weeks to find some of the groups that were particularly well hidden. They stood no chance for survival, and yet they fought as tenaciously as they did when on the cusp of victory. The public lived in fear of them, despite their almost total destruction.

"Through the elevator then?" asked Nantaris.

"No, sir. Too risky. We blew through the ceiling and dumped a full dropship inside. Our men handled it from there."

"How many Sith?"

There was a quarter rest on common time. "…Twelve, sir."

"Twelve? Twelve held out for that long? Bloody hell!"

The officer said nothing.

"Sorry," added Nantaris. "Good work, soldier. Thank you for the message. You're dismissed."

The Mandalorian dropped his head in respect and then marched back out.

Nantaris turned around to Mira. "Twelve? Can you believe it? Damn those things."

Mira changed topics abruptly. "I'll never get used to seeing those Mandalorians in the Temple."

Nantaris shrugged, said, "It is what it is, lass. No stranger than anything else that's happened in the last five years."

"I don't care. The sooner they're out of here the better."

Nantaris knew about Mira's past with the Mandalorians and wisely chose not to press the issue. But indeed the sight was odd. Once the scourge of the Republic, the Mandalorians now stationed their Coruscanti forces within the Jedi Temple. The would-be conquerors were now stalwart protectors. Mandalore would have nothing less. And considering that the Temple was completely devoid of life, it made sense to house the troops there instead of forcing them somewhere with no space.

They were a rowdy bunch. Nantaris did not bother with them anymore. He simply let them do what they would, and let their own officers manage them. He was technically in charge of them as Grand Master of the defunct building in which they were squatting, but he knew it was only superficial status. He ignored their drinking, yelling, and fighting. He got irritated when they dragged whores into the dorms once occupied by deceased Jedi, but there was nothing he could do about it.

"We'll get the next one," Mira assured him, changing the conversation again.

"I hope so, lass. Then maybe we'll get rid of these Mandalorians."

"Then let's move sooner rather than later."

_

* * *

A dreaded mouth opened before him_. _Fanged and bloody, it shrieked with rage at him. He was suspended helplessly before this screaming death. He tried to move, but he had no body. He tried to run, but managed nothing. The demon's maw stretched open wider and wider, engulfing his vision. He was plunged into the dark._

_He found himself standing still, a vast expanse in front of him. There was a pathway. The light had long since vanished, and the road led nowhere. Here he stood, looking out over the darkling plain, a faint red glow in the distance._

_He started to walk._

Caius Lucullus shot awake, sweat dripped down his forehead and back. He was hyperventilating. A more unsettling dream he did not recall having.

He ran his hand over his shaved head and his dark brown eyes tried to blink out sleep. He was of average height and build, and would probably be totally unremarkable were it not for his fame. His face was rigid and jaw square. He had a slight mark of short facial hair for a soul patch, and a small scar over his right eye, but those were the only real distinguishable physical qualities of his. On top of this, however, he had a propensity for glaring somewhat darkly even when he did not mean to, and this habit tended to ward off people who would otherwise be pestering him. In truth, Caius considered himself the quintessential normal fellow—all these other things; fame, notoriety, power, and the like, were not really part of his self-identity.

It was just past the sunrise, and Caius decided avoiding sleep was now the best policy. He slipped on his robes—now the light brown of a Jedi—and walked out of his tent. He arched his back and felt a few blessed cracks as it worked into shape. Three wretched weeks sleeping on a cot, and on Malacandra of all places. This was the one planet he never wanted to see again, and yet here he was—almost a permanent resident.

It had only been two months since the battle over Coruscant. Only two months since he had fled from Malacandra with the Sith in pursuit. Only two months since Xristos Karianis gave his life to save them.

He walked through the camp, part of a larger base of operations on Malacandra. Having cleansed almost the entire planet of Sith, the Republic was in firm control. They planned to use the Sith capital world as a springboard to the rest of the Unknown Regions. They would, from its vantage point, scour the surroundings and purge the few remnants of Sith that persisted.

The main city on the planet was bombed into oblivion. Pockets of resistance continued in the outskirts, with many Sith still holding out in the nooks and crannies of the network of canyons that surrounded the metropolis.

With the shattered city under Republic control, the ground forces bivouacked in the dusty streets between the burned out buildings. The camp was bleak, but it was safe.

Carth Onasi's word was law. Now the acting Fleet Admiral as everyone ahead of him was either incapable of service or dead, he commanded the Republic Expeditionary Force and all that that entailed. He kept counsel with his "friendly enemy"—Mandalore—who oversaw his own people.

These days, Caius stayed on the ground, providing a lightning rod of a morale boost for the soldiers. Some considered him the greatest war hero of the era, having even surpassed Revan. He had single-handedly slain the Sith Triumvirate, and had brought down Ardashir himself. His mere presence almost guaranteed victory against the nearly vanquished Sith. But despite this reverence, Caius was beginning to feel more and more detached from what was going around him. He felt aloof, but he could not exactly discern why. These were heady days for the Republic, but Caius had never had more cause to be at peace than now. That he felt so conflicted—and about nothing in particular—was a source of great frustration.

He struggled to shake off the fog of sleep as he walked. He went over to the makeshift mess and made a terrifyingly bad pot of coffee, which was enough to perk him up. He definitely needed to be alert, as he knew that the Republic offensive against the last major Sith stronghold on the planet was to commence shortly. Perhaps even that day or the next. After that, not even Mandalore knew the plan.

On his way outside, he was stopped in his tracks by a familiar cotton candy voice: "Morning!"

A barely perceptible smirk crept onto Caius's face before he suppressed it. He turned to face his doe-eyed assailant. "Good morning, Allie," he said. "Come to have some of my coffee?"

The familiar sound of whirring gears approached and Caius heard small treads grind up the dirt behind him. Never far from her side, the little droid T3-M4 rolled up next to Allie. They were, ever since midway through their adventures in the unknown regions, near constant companions. But Caius never saw them really communicate with each other or anything. It was simply a matter of wherever Allie went, T3 would be with her. He supposed this was a good thing, as he had rarely ever had anything for the droid to do.

"Er…no, thank you though," she said as nicely as possible. "I was just going to get…something. Care to join me?"

"Sure."

Here now was the woman that now meant so much to him. Allessandra Marlowe was literally the last person in whom he would have guessed he would have developed a romantic interest, but somehow the two of them were swept up together during their adventures. It may not have made much sense, but reality often did not. This irony flashed about his mind as he followed her through the mess. T3, in turn, followed him, humming quietly.

During his life as an exile, Caius had thought he had hardened himself to personal attachments. Some of those he met during those years thought him nearly inhuman, or perhaps subhuman, for his casual disregard for other people. He was simply shut off from people in those years. But once his adventures began, his walls were slowly broken down.

First, Atton—sarcastic, two-faced Atton—somehow befriended him. That was the first step, and the first connection that he had formed in years. Then came his almost fatherly determination to watch over Mira. He gained more friends, people he would have previously thought would only forsake him. He joined up with Bastila and the others for his journey to the Unknown Regions, and he even grew to appreciate them. He came to trust Bastila as he would a sister, and he loved her dearly. Her loss devastated him, and he knew he would never recover from it.

But even after all of that, he never anticipated the allure that such an unassuming woman like Allie would cast over him.

She was a rather odd person, too—not very much like him. Rather idiosyncratic in behavior, she was actually pretty awkward in social situations, as she'd spent much of her life as a bit of a recluse. She generally betrayed this fact with her appearance. But that did not mean much to Caius. For someone so conditioned by the self-denying ways of the Jedi, such superficial trivialities were very easily dispensed with. He did not mind that her face perpetually lacked cosmetics, or that her shoulder length brown hair was frayed at the edges. He did not even mind her abysmal fashion sense. That was just who she was. He knew that if she had wanted to be beautiful in the objective sense all she had to do was put in a little effort, but she did not and that was okay with him. Such is the side effect of a Jedi upbringing.

She shuffled along ahead of him, gathering up some things to eat for breakfast. Despite her lack of concern for appearances, Allie was nevertheless very self-conscious of her height. She was not abnormally tall, but she seemed to feel otherwise. She only wore the flattest shoes she could find, and Caius noticed how she always slouched her shoulders, trying to shrink herself. Almost exactly six feet tall, she essentially matched him, but she was skilled enough to shave almost an inch and a half off of that.

He followed her to a table. He swept the crumbs left by its previous occupants to the ground and they sat down opposite each other.

Allie ate slowly, and Caius did not say anything. Eventually she asked, "Is something wrong?"

She was good at that, he found out rather quickly after meeting her. He knew she was smart—she was, after all, a technician—but it was hard, exactly, to gauge just how intelligent she was. Almost as if she masked it on purpose. "No, nothing," he lied, "I just had a strange dream…"

"Oh," she said, "okay. Everything all right?"

"Yeah—I'm fine. Thanks."

She took another bite.

"How long do you think we're going to stay here on Malacandra?" she asked.

"Until Carth thinks the Sith are completely annihilated. Then he wants to spread outwards to other planets. Once we can find out which worlds they've inhabited."

"But we don't even know where they are."

"Well, isn't that your job?"

"Hey! I've done all I can," she protested, "I don't know what's going on."

Truthfully it was her job. She was the only hacker in the Republic who had had any success in the past or present decrypting the Sith technology and code. No one else could even come close to decrypting it. She was even given an honorary rank in the Republic navy—Lietuenant—for her efforts. Allie had a special knack for technology, but the source of her gift, and the actual capacity of her intelligence, eluded just about everybody, even Caius.

"I don't doubt that you have," he said, "but, well, why is it that none of the other techies can make any progress? Why does this fall only to you?"

She shrugged with surprising quickness and said, "I don't know. I guess I'm the only one that can do it."

Here was another opportunity to try to vet her on her talents, so Caius took it, asked, "But why? How are you so good with machines and computers and hacking?"

"I don't know," she said, "I just always have been. I told you, I grew up around droids and stuff—my first summer jobs were with repair shops, so I've just always worked with those kinds of things."

"It has to be more than that—I've worked with machines most of my life and I still get mixed up with 'righty-tighty, lefty-loosey.' I'd guess you have some kind natural aptitude. I mean, out of the entire Republic, you're the only one who was able to crack the Sith's code. Just you."

She crooked her mouth and did not seem particularly flattered.

"I mean you're gifted," he clarified.

"No, no," she answered quickly, "I'm not gifted. No. It's just a…why do you have to ask about this? Is it so surprising?"

Now he had to be careful, "No—it's not. Just curious is all. I was only trying to complement you. Didn't think you'd get so defensive."

"I'm not being defensive!"

"Relax," he assured her, "I was just joking. Don't worry, I get it. You're good with machines, not really sure why. Some people have talents like that."

She smiled with some relief.

"You'll get it eventually," he assured her, referring to the decryption. "At least we have time on our side now."

The conversation meandered a bit until, after another short period of silence, Allie asked, "When do you think we'll go to Scythia?"

"I don't know," he answered. "I really don't."

"Hopefully soon."

"Yeah," he said.

"And you still owe me that dinner there," she said with a wry smile.

**Note: **Well, that's the first segment. I don't really know where I'm going with this story, but I feel that there's still a tale to tell here for Caius and Nantaris. I've stalled out lately and have been experiencing some extended writer's block, but maybe finally posting it will help get the creative juices flowing. I can't promise regular updates (if anyone actually reads this), but I'll see what comes. Maybe I'll even be surprised.


	2. A Short Interlude

**Author's Note: **Well, here's a second chapter a little sooner than I anticipated. Can't promise the one-a-week thing, but I'm hoping going a little faster in the beginning will prod me along. Thanks to those who reviewed! Your comments are always appreciated.

Here goes nothing…

* * *

**A Short Interlude**

"An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered." – G.K. Chesterton

* * *

Nantaris walked through the incomprehensibly large library. This place, the Jedi Archives, was a testament to millennia of knowledge. Compiled assiduously by the more scholarly Jedi of the past, everything that was worth knowing about history, philosophy, literature, art, science, popular culture, or what have you, was contained within it.

The Grand Master had a new assignment, a new lead, and he needed a short bit of background and consultation. Just a quick search of the database for information on this vague planet to which he now needed to travel. Of course, he also needed to know where it was.

"Good day, Master Nantaris!" called a gregarious voice from one disheveled alley of books.

"Afternoon," replied Nantaris.

Although the Archives were remarkably preserved from the invasion's destruction, much of it was in disarray. Holocrons flung about, papers strewn everywhere. Several shelves collapsed from the artillery induced quakes. Much was broken. Rebuilding and organizing it would be a project, and no Jedi historian was even alive to begin such undertaking. For this reason, Nantaris put out an open application for the role.

"Something I can help you with?"

And this was the man selected for the task. His parents saw fit to give him the almost theatrically appropriate name of Kingswell, effectively sealing his fate as a scholar from the moment of birth. Kingswell Hamann: a deterministic name if there ever was one. Although he preferred his acquaintances call him, for reasons unknown, Ian.

Nantaris thought for a moment before addressing him. "I need information concerning the planet Doliani. Apparently I'll be going there—but I've never heard of it."

"In 2594!" Ian suddenly shouted, "I posed for another sculpture! It was a _nude_…"

"What the hell is this?" escaped from Nantaris.

A protocol droid suddenly appeared next to Nantaris and began to recite. "Entry number 24: Diary of Balderick Hederings—In 2594, I posed for another sculpture. It was a nude…"

"Forgive me," said Ian, slowly emerging from behind the piles of books and scattered bits of electronic memory. "I'm dictating to this obstinate machine and it can't seem to comprehend what I'm saying half the time."

"Balderick? Who? What are you dictating?"

Ian laughed, said, "The personal diaries of Balderick Hederings, of course! They were lost in the invasion, so I'm currently mending them."

Nantaris had no idea who that was. He was certain no one else he knew had ever heard of him either. "I see," he said. He then turned to face the droid, which vacantly returned his gaze.

"What planet, you say?" asked Ian.

"Doliani."

"Ah, I know this place, but I've never been there. I've heard it's quite pristine, though a little backwards."

The large man emerged from the shadows of the hall and into the artificial light. He moved surprisingly swiftly for his size. Portly, tall, fun-loving, and incredibly witty, this was the man Nantaris had elected to supervise the management of the Archives. Jedi he was not, but that was not an option any longer. A renowned literary critic from a major university on Commenor, he had gotten the job based almost entirely upon his application, which came in the form of a letter. It was the strangest thing Nantaris had ever read.

_Dearest Sir or Madame (or whichever you prefer),_

_I am writing to you concerning the availability of the position of librarian for the Jedi Archives. I gave brief perusal to the application, but in my distaste for such conventional trivialities I elected instead to compose this letter. My apologies for what follows._

_Allow me to begin with a parable. There were once two wise men who happened to be neighbors. One of them walked outside every morning, beheld the universe around him, and broken down and cried. He just could not help it. His neighbor walked outside every morning, beheld the universe around him, and threw his head back and laughed. He just could not help it._

_This strange mixture of laughter and misery, joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain, profundity and absurdity, chocolate chip cookies and my mother's meatloaf, is what we simply call life. And no better chronicling of all these experiences has ever been assembled other than your very own Archives of the Jedi. It would be a most exquisite opportunity to be allowed to helm the restoration project of this critical establishment._

_I trust that you will trust that I can be trusted when I say that I am singularly qualified for this job. I am fluent in eight languages, can write twelve, and have an almost photographic memory. I have a thorough knowledge of the historical, literary, and philosophical traditions that run through our glorious Republic, and can provide evidence of this fact. (See my many books on these many topics)._

_To be fair, I must be forthright and announce now that I have very little patience with droids. These soulless machines often complicate things far beyond what is necessary and I believe they would only hinder me in my quest. I mention this as the only possible drawback towards my hiring._

_Thank you for your consideration and patience with my verbosity. I trust you will choose wisely._

_Sincerely,_

_Dr. Kingswell Attenworth Hamann_

Nantaris hired the man immediately.

Ian's appearance was almost as ridiculous as his letter and personality. He often wore antiquated clothing, though whether he was conscious of this no one knew. He was frequently seen with a cloak or cape over a wool suit and a crumpled hat. He was known to wear tweed jackets when it suited him. Though not very old, around middle age, he typically walked with a straight cane or walking stick, mostly because he liked the way it looked. His light brown hair was usually disheveled and parted in obtuse angles; his face was round and plump; and his beady, brown eyes bore crow's feet, the consequences of years of jollity and merrymaking and bellowing laughter.

Compounding all his other strange mannerisms, Ian's vocabulary and manner of speech was just as eccentric as he was. He would frequently weave his verbal tapestry with obscure words, mixed metaphors, malapropisms, and self-described "catachresis." All of this, he believed, was mighty funny, though his humor would more often than not result in his amusement and no one else's.

"Let us examine the database," he said.

Nantaris allowed the large man to lead the way as he navigated the newly reorganized archives. Ian approached a console and then shouted at his droid assistant, "Hey, maladroid! Conjure up the planetary database!"

"Yes, master. Right away."

"Imbecile machine," muttered Ian quietly.

He sifted through the information for a few moments and then turned to face Nantaris. "Hmmm," he mused, "Doliani was only discovered about fifty years ago, but the indigenous species is human. Fascinating. Seems to be governed by a constitutional monarchy. They are not part of the Republic, but have undertaken negotiations to join lately, as they are apparently well-stocked in a useful metal alloy the Republic wants to trade."

"What about cities, urban landscapes?"

"Seems there are only a few major cities. Capital is called Thoyahna. The rest of the planet is overcome with dense flora. Sounds a bit like Onderon."

"I hope it isn't too much like Onderon. Otherwise the planet will be populated exclusively by assholes."

"The reason for their unsurpassed latrines, I suppose."

Nantaris did not laugh.

Ian was silent for a moment, then asked, "Why is it that you're going there?"

"I have a lead," Nantaris answered, "concerning a force sensitive child. I'll have to make a trek to the capital and talk to her parents. It's a long way out, but I'm getting desperate here."

"You have no other leads?"

"That's not exactly true. I have one here in a poorer district on Coruscant, as well. I'll be checking there first."

"Harvesting the younglings?" asked Ian with a smirk.

The comment hit Nantaris close to home, as he squinted his green eyes and then sighed. "It feels that way sometimes."

"Sorry," said Ian, "that was merely an attempt at humor." He quickly changed topics. "If you don't mind," he began, "would you mind if I accompanied you to Doliani?"

"What for?"

"Must there be a reason? It sounds like a fascinating place, and a wonderful opportunity to expand my intellectual repertoire."

"I don't see why not. I'll let you know when I leave."

"I'll have to tell my wife, she'll certainly be excited!"

Nantaris held his breath, "You're bringing her, too?"

"Of course not! Didn't you hear what I said?"

* * *

There was a shout. "Never!" screamed a woman in hysterics, "You can't take my son! Get away from me you son of a bitch!"

A metal door slammed in his face, and Nantaris found himself standing alone in a dreary, ill-lit hallway.

He was contained for a moment, but effervescent rage threatened to break through. He tried to take a deep breath, but he could not prevent the deluge. He clenched his fist, spun around, and thrust it straight at the concrete wall. So great was the force of his anger that his hand smashed through the obstruction completely. He quickly pulled his hand out, knowing he suffered no injury, and gave a fleeting glance to the glaring crater he left behind.

_There is no emotion, there is peace_, he thought to himself. _Like bloody hell…_

He turned to his right to see a solitary kid staring at him in wide-eyed terror.

"What are you looking at?" Nantaris asked angrily. The kid was merely frozen. "Get out of here!"

With that, the child vacated the premises, leaving behind the toy he had been holding.

Nantaris sighed, the acute pang of another failure gnawing at him. He was growing more and more disenchanted with the whole notion of rebuilding the Order. If he did not find success soon, he resolved to put a stake in the whole thing.

* * *

"Once more, with feeling!" shouted the Mandalorian officer. Captain Kenaan, as he was called, was a strange man, even amongst his kith and kin. His almost spiritual reverence for large artillery was the source of much confusion and sometimes mockery within the ranks, but when heavy weapons were deployed, there was no one more apt for the job.

The guns roared again. Mounted on the backs of huge, walking tanks, they scattered their laser beams all about the walls of the earthen Sith citadel, shattering the ramparts and slowly wearing out the defense.

Three days ago, Allie had finally made a breakthrough in cracking the Sith enigma. There was still work to be done, but she had broken enough for the Republic to determine the locations of all the fortresses and hideouts the Sith had spread about the surface of Malacandra. Information is the most important weapon, and the Republic finally had it.

One gun broke through the breach.

"Now!" shouted someone.

Caius Lucullus, at the head of the pack, led a dangerous charge. Scrambling up the marmoreal cliff face, hundreds of Mandalorians and Republic soldiers accompanying him, they made their way into the breach.

Bullets and rockets from the Sith encampments sprayed about the Republic wedge, but it was not enough to prevent the onslaught. The coalition soldiers poured through the gap and began pushing away the beleaguered defenders.

Caius ran, his blue lightsaber elevated over his head, towards one of the AA guns mounted behind the thickest parts of the wall. The huge cannons were the only thing keeping Republic air superiority from bombarding the fortress into submission. Wedged into a canyon, the fortress was immune to orbital bombardment, but could be destroyed from the lower skies if the opportunity could be made. He and several others made a beeline towards the guns, only to be met by several more tenacious Sith soldiers.

The Exile ducked underneath a sword stroke and stabbed the attacker. He then felt the air expunged from his lungs and he vaulted sideways. A nearly mad Sith had smacked him with a frighteningly large metal rod and sent him careening into the dirt. His head thudded against the ground, but he rolled to the side to avoid the rod's next blow, and then thrust his lightsaber upwards, impaling the attacker and killing him.

He shoved the corpse off of his body and wearily stood up, twisting his side to alleviate the pain from the blow. He turned to a nearby officer and ordered, "Set the charges on the AA guns."

The demolitions crew began setting up the explosives, as the Sith forces dwindled even further. In the distance, about a hundred yards further, Caius saw another group of Sith strangely milling about beneath the obsidian wall of their fortress's main building.

"I'm heading over there," he added.

Caius charged towards the figures, but his sight somehow betrayed him. The apparitions distorted before his very eyes and began shifting right and left; one they began to assimilate into each other. They mutated into more grotesque phantoms than mere Sith, and Caius suddenly felt himself overwhelmed by dread. He drew closer to them, even though he wanted to stop and turn away.

_What…what is happening?_ he thought to himself.

No sooner had they appeared than did they inexplicably vanish. There was suddenly nothing there. Caius felt as though he was walking into a vortex, and his eyes could not adequately discern what he was seeing, but they were gone.

Caius was left alone, without a clue as to what he had just seen.

"Sir, what are you doing?" exclaimed a voice behind him.

"Huh?" he replied, bewildered.

It was a Republic officer. "The AA guns have been destroyed!" he yelled, "We're falling back! The fortress is going to be bombed!"

Caius quickly regained his senses and followed the man out of the encampment. The Sith were totally broken, and they met with no resistance as they escaped along with the rest of the attacking force.

The gray skies then erupted as Republic air power streaked overhead. Caius covered his ears as the sound barrier was shattered. The ships followed their path over the Sith fortress and though he could not really discern the lasers, he saw the effects of the explosives as the base ruptured from the inside. The structures buckled and began falling, and fires exploded outwards. The walls crumbled.

"Chalk up another victory," said Captain Kenaan. The soldiers in the area cheered.

* * *

"Hmm," emanated from the _Reckoner_'s ship doctor, a reticent but friendly Twi'lek by the name of Halleck.

"'Hmm' what?" asked Caius.

The blue-skinned doctor did not respond. He simply stood still, reading over all the papers he had in front of him.

"You were hit in the head, you say?"

"Yes," answered Caius.

"And you saw hallucinations?"

"Yes."

"Well," said the doctor, taking his thin-rimmed glasses off and looking at Caius. "There's nothing wrong with you. You're perfectly fine."

Caius was relieved. "That's good news."

"It's not _good _news, because I don't know what caused it. Physically, you're fine. I have no answer for what happened to you on the battlefield."

"So…what do I do then?"

"But I think you should be clear to do whatever is needed of you. You need to go out into combat again, or travel, or what have you, I see no reason why you should not. You're in perfect health. I don't know what caused your hallucinations, but it has nothing to do with your health. Perhaps you experienced them as a short-term side-effect of the head trauma, but you are fine now. You weren't hit hard enough to cause lasting damage."

"All right," said Caius, "thank you doctor."

"Come back if you experience something else," said the doctor. "Most just keep it to themselves."

"Right," said Caius, "I would never do that."

He left the clinic. Allie was waiting for him outside.

Good thing I made you go," she said with a smile.

Now that the last of the Sith strongholds with any proximity to the Republic camp on Malacandra had been destroyed, it was time to move on to the other planets. They still were unaware of where, exactly, those planets were—or if there were any. But that Malacandra was more or less secure was a huge triumph.

The next stop would be, of course, Scythia. That was the only other planet that the Republic knew had any presence of Sith at all. In the meantime, they would try to crack more of the Sith encryptions and learn the statuses of their other worlds.

As for the excursion to Scythia, Caius had volunteered himself to lead it.


	3. Tendering Resignations

**Author's Notes: **Well, big surprise, but I'm behind. Who would've guessed! Here's another chapter anyway, though. No telling when the next will be, but I figured I should throw this one down anyway. Thanks to the reviewers out there, you guys are awesome. Gipper, Tolk, blatant0, runwild, outlander, (and of course Valentai). Many thanks! (And my apologies for the gratuitous self-homage here, back to Doliani!)

* * *

**Tendering Resignations**

"We are all interested in the future, for that is where you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives." – Woody Allen

* * *

"I quit," said Nantaris.

"What?" hiccupped Atton, inadvertently inhaling a stream of coffee.

"Whatever happens on Doliani, it doesn't matter. I'm resigning after this."

Atton was still coughing, and Dustil asked for him, "How can you do this? Is that even possible?"

"I don't care if it is or isn't. I don't care about any of it anymore. I'm leaving the Order."

"Nantaris," said Mira, "think this over. You can't just leave right now."

"Watch me."

None spoke, leaving the zipping and singing of the speeders overhead the only audible noise. Nantaris hailed a cab. The group silently boarded it, and did not speak until all were comfortably situated. It had been a few weeks since Nantaris's last attempt to adopt a child into the order, giving him ample time to reach this decision. It was not one that he made lightly.

"Why are you quitting?" asked Dustil.

"I'm not fit for this role," answered Nantaris flatly, "I'm only holding back the development of the order by staying on as Grand Master."

"I see."

"Bullshit," called Mira. "You're not that idealistic. You're leaving because you don't want the responsibility anymore. You want to just go do your own thing."

Nantaris looked her over sternly and then shrugged, said, "And so what if I do? Am I forbidden that? I never asked for this role. I don't want it. Not that it matters, anyway; like I said—I clearly _can't_ do it."

"So you're just giving up?" she asked.

"Yes."

"But what if it's a success this time?" asked Dustil. "What if we get a recruit?"

"It won't change my mind. I've made it up. You can all stop trying, too. I've been thinking about this for a long time now, it's not some sort of haphazard decision made on a whim. The few months I've been Grand Master have been nothing short of a debacle. The Order was almost completely destroyed under my watch, and now we cannot even begin rebuilding. It's best that I step aside and go my own way. That I _want_ to leave does not make it invalid or unwise."

Mira let his speech sink in before speaking up again. "Atton," she pleaded, "say something!"

"Something."

"Go to hell," she replied.

"What?" he asked, "do you really think I could change his mind? Come on…"

"Right, Atton," said Nantaris, "I always knew I liked you. Sort of."

The attempt at humor fell flat. No one said anything the remainder of the cab ride. All were content to simply watch the speeders skid by outside the window.

When they arrived at the spaceport, Ian was waiting for them near the gate. They strode up in quiet, but the conflict was palpable.

"I smell ennui," said Ian as they approached.

"I'm through talking about it," said Nantaris.

"Are you now?"

"I'll tell you later, Ian," said Dustil.

A serene, mechanical voice piped over the loudspeaker, informing them that the shuttle docking with the next transport to Doliani was now boarding.

"I believe this is our cue," said Ian.

He moved on, his polished walking stick clanking against the railway, into the shuttle, the rest of them following suit. The short ride up to the transport was just as uncomfortable as the cab ride, and would be just as uncomfortable as the upcoming trip.

On the transport, Nantaris retreated and spent the entire duration by himself. Atton, Mira, Dustil, and Ian passed the time idly chatting about it.

"He is his own man," said Ian, "if he wants to leave, we cannot help it."

"But it's stupid of him to leave!" said Dustil.

"Quite right. Did you tell him that?"

"Mira did."

"Damn straight," she said. "Atton was no help."

"Hey, I tried hard."

She sighed.

"This is just selfishness," said Dustil. "He doesn't want the pressure of being in charge so he's delegating it to us. But what are we going to do? None of us have any idea! He's going to kill the Order by doing this."

"I think," suggested Ian, "that the best thing would be to let it drop for now. Let him say what he wants, see how the recruitment goes, and then you can resume negotiating his return."

"I guess that makes sense," said Dustil.

"I don't like it," said Mira. Then she turned to Atton, "And you better take my side next time this comes up. None of your stupid 'humor'."

Atton clasped his fists together, "Yes, my dear! I'll support you!"

Dustil said, "You're rather antagonistic today, aren't you?"

"He's on his period," Mira informed him.

"What the hell?" he said, finally letting a sincere comment escape him. "It's no secret Nantaris doesn't like me. He never has, hell if I know why. Remember when you_ all _went on that high-priority peacekeeping assignment wherever, and Nantaris ordered me to stay behind and make sure none of the Mandalorians brought hookers into his room? That was _so _funny. Forgive me for not being heartbroken."

"I always thought he seemed civil to you," said Dustil.

"He is," replied Mira, "but he likes using Atton as a foil for his jokes, and our dashing rogue is too sensitive for that."

"It's clear who wears the pants in this relationship."

"And you wonder why I didn't want to join the Jedi," muttered Atton. "It's just this and then the nonstop ride on Nantaris's complain-a-go-round."

"And free coffee," said Dustil.

Mira laughed.

Ian input, "Well, you three at least have chemistry together. I think, even should Nantaris leave, you'll do fine. And soon that other fellow will come back from the fringes of space. I think you'll survive with or without him. Just let me know what I can do to help. I'm no Jedi, but I am employed by all of you."

"Thanks, Ian," said Dustil.

* * *

Doliani was a sylvan world, this much was certain. Most of its structures were somehow nested between a webbing of trees and bushes, the metropolitan remnants of the planet's almost achingly beautiful flora.

The group, with the exception of Nantaris, departed from the transport and walked towards the exits, admiring their reflections in the pristine, white walls of the spaceport.

As they emerged from the port, they beheld the city of Thoyahna from the vantage point carefully chosen by its inhabitants as the first sight any tourist would see once they arrived—they wanted their planet to look its best, and it certainly did.

"This place is beautiful," escaped from Dustil as he took a step down the wide, white staircase towards the main street in what was apparently the high end of the market district.

"It certainly is," agreed Ian.

They moved slowly, enough time for a brooding Nantaris to emerge from the spaceport as well. If he was awestruck by the planet's beauty, he did not let on. As his footsteps became more audible, Ian commented, "Well! The anchorite finally deigns to join us."

"Yes, he has," stated Nantaris.

"Where are we going?" asked Dustil.

"Somewhere near the Royal Mile, a ways off from the parliament building."

"Well," began Ian, "I'll leave you monks to your business. I'll meet you back here in a few hours."

"What are you going to do?"

Ian laughed quietly to himself, "Why, I intend to meander."

* * *

The group approached the home—an apartment in what was probably the richest part of the entire resplendent city. The entered the complex and approached the door, knocking firmly but politely. At length, the door opened, slowly, and a brunette woman—probably in her thirties—appeared; timidly she rested her head against the side of the door, concealing the rest of her body.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

Nantaris begrudgingly took a step forward to introduce himself. "Yes. My name is Valiens Nantaris. I am here about your daughter."

"Yes, I remember you contacted me. Now, what do you want with my daughter?"

"Well, that depends. Do you know who I am?"

"Should I?"

"Not particularly," he answered with a tone of irritation. He had been vague during his earlier communications with this woman, as he had often experienced outright rejection by families before he even met them once they learned that he was a Jedi. He calmed himself down, however, before continuing, "but I am the Grand Master of the Order of the Jedi. May we talk?"

"I…well…I know…" she then backed off the door, "let me get my husband."

She left the door ajar and the Jedi waiting in limbo. Minutes later she returned, but without anyone. She said, "You can come in to talk, Valiens. The rest of you can wait in the guest room."

Nantaris thanked her and they filed in. Atton, Mira, and Dustil obeyed and went to a lavishly furnished guest room, bedizened with all kinds of high art and suitably patrician decorations, while Nantaris followed the petit woman through the hallways of her deceptively large apartment. He came into the dining room to see her husband, a thin man with mildly long, thick brown hair that bore fingermarks from excessive stroking, sitting at a large, almost kingly, wooden table. He was clearly deep in thought, and almost did not notice Nantaris come in.

He was offered a seat, but as Nantaris walked towards the table he noticed the little girl in the doorway to the kitchen. She stood there quietly, her huge, piercing blue eyes glaring at him without any sort of emotion at all—there was no fear, no excitement, no malice. Nothing. She just watched him quietly and deliberately.

She was a pretty little girl, he thought, no more than six years old. Her face was round, and a small, slightly upturned nose punctuated her otherwise perfectly symmetrical face. But the most noticeable thing about her was her completely jet black hair that flowed over her little shoulders and down her back, an untamable trait she likely inherited from her father.

She was leaning against the threshold much as her mother had at the front door. She likely would have stayed there had her mother not said, "Remy, go play with your toys."

The girl did not move.

"Now."

She scrunched her nose in displeasure but nevertheless complied with her mother.

Nantaris smiled at the girl but she left before she noticed. He then sat down.

"So, what do you have to say?" asked the father.

* * *

"So I said, 'Use the fire distinguisher!'"

The heavy-set alien at the bar exploded in laughter, almost spewing his drink out of his nose. "Mr. Kingswell, that is a riot!"

Ian laughed at his own story, his mouth craned to accommodate the rather large cigar he had. The smoke wafted through the darkened corner of the pub, the meager orange light giving the establishment a sort of twilit warmth.

The bartender, too, was sharing in the reverie. "I can't believe that story," he said in between hiccupped snorts.

"Well, believe it, my good man," said Ian, who had removed the cigar. "This is a fine brew," he continued, gesturing to the mug on the bar in front of him. "Oh how I love an amber ale."

"Best pub in the city, off-worlder."

"I believe _you_. Can you not return the favor?"

"Maybe," replied the bartender, "if you buy another drink."

"Sure thing! Let's try something different this time. Any dry stout? What about you?" asked Ian to the alien.

"I shouldn't have any more, I'm on the rocks with funds as it is—and some punk kid stole my wallet this morning."

The bartender, who had been cleaning a glass, sighed, saying, "That's a damn shame. Thieves—no one respects anyone's property anymore."

"Now there I disagree!" interjected Ian. "Thieves respect property. They just wish it to become theirs so that they may more perfectly respect it."

The bartender laughed again, though much more subdued this time.

"I'll drink to thieves respecting property," said the alien.

"There you go!" said the bartender. "Now drink up."

* * *

"No," said the mother. "No, I don't consent to this. There's no way. Remy stays with us. Now, leave us alone."

Nantaris said nothing. Another failure. Though he had expected nothing more.

"Please," said the husband, "no need for hostility. He's just doing his job." He turned to face Nantaris. "But you can see what she means, can't you? I'm sorry, but we just can't do this. No self-respecting parent could."

Nantaris did not even bother to argue. There was no point. This would, then, be his final failure as the Grand Master of the Order.

"Thank you for your time," he said curtly.

With that, he pushed out his chair and stood up, cracked his neck, and then made his way towards the exit. He poked his head in the guest room, saw the other three lounging about lazily, and said angrily, "We're going."

"That's it?" asked Atton.

"What happened?" said Mira.

"Nantaris!" called Dustil, but he was gone.

The three all popped off of the furniture they were sprawled upon and followed him, but he had already hustled out the door.

"Wait!" Dustil continued to call as they followed him through.

Mira ran the fastest and caught up with him. She grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around almost violently.

"Hands off me!" he exclaimed.

"Stop now! What happened? Where are you going?"

"I'm going home, packing my things, and getting the hell out of here."

"Nantaris," began Dustil, "you can't just do this to us! At least give us this one thing!"

"What one thing?" he cried out, exasperated, "It's over! Another trip, another failure. The sooner I get out of this the better. You'll see. Caius will be a wonderful Grand Master."

There was so much bitterness and acid in his words they could not tell if he was serious or sarcastic.

To everyone's surprise, Mira stepped up and challenged him head on—not even he anticipated it. "Stop it!" she yelled in his face. At first Nantaris was surprised at her volume, but after an initial flinch he just squinted at her and took his beating.

"You are not going to do this to us! I will not allow it! You may want to be a selfish son of a bitch, and that's your problem. But you are _not _going to leave us like this!"

"And what, _lass_, do you propose I do instead?"

"Get your ass in there and get that girl. _Now_."

Nantaris shoved her forward a foot and her hands flew up into the air as he detached her from himself. "Damn it all," he said. "You'd do well to remember I'm your superior."

"Then _act like it_."

A stare down ensued, with neither one backing down. Eventually Dustil input, "Nantaris—you were only in there for ten minutes. You could at least go and _try_. For our sakes."

He shook his head twitchily and then took a deep breath. He straightened out his robes with one irritated jerk at the hem and then took a step back towards the house. "Very well, then." He eyed them all, especially Mira. "I'll do this for you—and don't call me selfish again." The last was not a plea, but a borderline threat.

He then made his way back towards the entrance.

"Another day of this," said Dustil, "and he'll fight his way out."

Nantaris stormed back inside. _I'll give her hell for that_, he thought to himself. But despite his rage, Mira's words nevertheless resonated with them. He did suppose, in his heart of hearts, that he should at least make the most thorough effort possible to recruit this girl. He had only made a half-hearted effort as it was, as he was set on his empty-handed return and resignation. But he would not allow himself to wallow in the melancholy—not now, at least.

He strutted dictatorially into the dining room, where the mother and father were still sitting, and approached them briskly.

"Hey! We told you to leave!"

"My…conscience forbade me," he answered.

"What?"

He took his deep breath again. Almost instantly, in this new circumstance, his anger towards Mira and his frustration disappeared. Here was another shot. "Look—we've been skirting around the issue. I know this is hard for you. I cannot even begin to comprehend the magnitude of what I am asking of you. But you _must _see this from another perspective."

"We _asked _you to _leave_!" said the father, standing up and knocking his chair backwards with the back of his knee.

"And I told you that I cannot," said Nantaris. "Now, can we discuss this civilly?"

"And _I_ told _you_ that we cannot!" yelled the husband. "Who's perspective are you begging us to see through? Yours? You admitted you can't understand. Go back to your tower, leave us alone."

"Not my perspective—your _daughter's_."

"You do not know what's best for our daughter," said the mother, who in spite of all of this managed to sit down the whole time.

"No—you don't," Nantaris charged. "I am sorry I have to be so blunt, but the situation demands it. I want nothing more than to help you. I know the problems your daughter has had in school. I know that a week ago she accidentally killed your pet dog without so much as touching it."

The father suddenly went quiet.

"How…how do you know about that?" asked the mother.

"I have my sources," he said.

He then slowly tried to diffuse the heated environment by sitting down. He gestured as calmly as possible for the father to do the same. "I know you don't believe me. Hell, I wouldn't believe me. But you _must _consider your daughter's well being. There's no telling what could happen if she is allowed to continue without any guidance, any shepherding. She is a maelstrom of untamed power and potential. If you do not let me help her, her life will be miserable."

The mother's eyes began to water. She said, "But she's our _daughter_. Our _only_ child."

"I know, ma'am," he said, trying to be conciliatory.

"We can't live without her."

Nantaris sighed. "I cannot deny the gravity of what I'm asking of you. I am only trying to show you that it is necessary."

"What would happen…" continued the mother in a deeply emotional voice, "if she stayed? What is so bad?"

"It's impossible to say," Nantaris tried to explain, "but it would be incredibly dangerous for her, for you, for her friends. Everything could even be normal for weeks or months, but one day she might have a temper tantrum and kill somebody. Of course she would never do it on purpose—but that's precisely the danger."

"Surely you never find all these children," said the husband. "What happens with them? Do they all turn out so dangerous? I never hear of children killing people with their minds."

"Most…are not as strong as Remy is."

Nantaris's use of her first name was enough to put both of them over the edge.

"Let us…let us think, please," asked the father.

"Please do," said Nantaris.

He left the room. He overheard the mother on his way out say, "I knew this would happen…I knew something like this would happen…ever since…" and then she trailed off. They talked between themselves for a long time—hours, even—before eventually summoning him back. In that time, he had gone back outside to see the others. He apologized to Mira for his behavior, and she hers. Eventually he went back inside at their bidding.

"Master Jedi," began the mother, "would we ever see her again?"

Nantaris almost answered "no" without thinking, but then reconsidered. "Historically, children have been forbidden from knowing their parents." The mother grew more uneasy. "But…" he continued, "you know what, damn it. Look at the good that's done the Order. I'll tell you this now. I'll allow you to keep contact with your daughter as often as you like. I'll even let you visit her, but just not immediately."

"I…see…" she replied. "Would you let us alone again?"

"Certainly."

He heard them talking quietly, but gravely, for another extended period of time. Eventually, he heard the mother begin crying audibly. The father then called out in a painfully shaky voice, "Remy…can you come here?" a sigh, and then another "Remy!" Nantaris heard the soft patter of the little girl stride over the carpet. "Your mother and I have…been talking…"

Nantaris had done it.

His heart sank.

* * *

The family requested the night to be together before giving up their daughter to the Order. Mira was ecstatic, Dustil was thankful, and even Atton was supportive of Nantaris—but none of it made him feel any less like the worst villain in the galaxy. They contacted Ian from their hotel—he was on the other side of town—and told him to meet them at the spaceport the next day at noon.

The goodbye was traumatic. Nantaris could not bear to watch as the two parents tearfully bade their child farewell. That he had broken protocol and promised them future contact was no anodyne. The girl had cried all night, and Nantaris could not force the image out of his head. She was surprisingly stoic now—but that did not matter.

"Hi, Remy," said Mira, kneeling down in front of her small guest. "My name is Mira."

Remy did not say anything, instead just looked on with a sort of shy smile. Mira smiled to herself and then took the girl's hand, holding on to it as they walked.

"Thank you, Nantaris," Mira tried to tell him as they walked down the Royal Mile to the market district and then the spaceport. "You helped us. And you did the right thing."

"Sure as hell doesn't feel like it, lass."

"But you did. And now you've really started rebuilding. Are you—"

He cut her off. "Yes, I am still stepping down."

"Why?"

He hesitated. "Because I could never do that again."

Mira was not compelled to argue with him. Instead, she merely asked, "If you really are going to leave, could you at least stay on until Caius comes back? We need someone in charge. Someone's who been here longer than three months."

Nantaris agreed, "Sure, lass." He then added, "And I'm sorry for the way I acted yesterday."

"You were frustrated. So was I. It's okay. We're over it."

They took a break from walking at one point to order some drinks at a casual corner bistro.

"Do you want anything, Remy?" Mira asked.

The little girl shook her head in two swift motions, but did not speak. Mira was a little concerned, but figured that the situation was nothing if not awkward. It even looked strange. In the distance, strangers could be seen gawking at the strange sight: four Jedi on the move with a little girl—the poor child carrying along a small backpack with her belongings.

They arrived at the spaceport just past noon, the appointed time to meet Ian. But he was not there. They agreed to wait, but as the minutes gave way to an hour, they grew concerned.

"Someone better call him," said Dustil.

"Uh, yeah," said Atton with a matter-of-fact insolence.

Before either of them could respond, Nantaris's comm suddenly beeped. He took it out and Ian began to speak.

"Am at the Royal Museum. Where ought I to be?"

"Where ought you to be?" asked Nantaris incredulously, "You _ought _to be at the spaceport! Isn't that what we agreed to?"

"Did we? I've been waiting here for an hour!"

"I'll see you in thirty minutes," said the Grand Master before cutting off the line.

In due time, Ian approached the group, apologetic but otherwise in the same jovial spirits.

"Apologies for my tardiness," he began.

Dustil said, "It doesn't matter—we've been dealing with customs the whole time anyway."

"Bastards," muttered Atton.

"What's the problem?"

Dustil said, "We haven't been able to secure passage for Remy since her parents aren't here to authorize it. And the official has proven surprisingly resistant to persuasion."

"Remy?" asked Ian. He then looked down to see the little girl standing in front of Mira, the older Jedi's hands resting on her tiny shoulders. "Why, you've retrieved the bantling!"

"…bantling?" asked Atton.

"He looks like a bear," said Remy.

Ian threw his head back and laughed uproariously. "And I weigh as much as one, too!" he said in between guffaws.

"Well," said Mira with a smirk, "that's the first thing she's said all day. At least we know she isn't mute."

After a moment's pause, Dustil said, "I'm going to go try to help Nantaris. Maybe if we both try to persuade at once it'll work."

"Good luck," said Mira.

The four waited around at the base of the grand, white staircase, watching the passersby, when Remy, once again, broke the silence. "Oooh," she said, "that man took that man's pocket."

"Who? What?"

They looked about their immediate vicinity and did see a rather shady looking individual—who had just collided with a Twi'lek—scamper off towards the waiting area, trying to blend in.

"Did he just pickpocket that guy?" asked Atton.

"I think so," said Mira. "We should probably do…_something_."

Atton sneered, "Well, that is Jedi business."

"I'll handle it," Ian suddenly volunteered, "Atton—you go track down the guy who's wallet was stolen. Keep him from getting too far. I'll talk to the thief."

"You?"

"Why not?"

"You aren't a Jedi."

"Shockingly, I am aware of this."

"But—"

It was too late.

Ian ambled rather casually towards the thief—really no more than a teenage boy—who was standing by a chrome bench, certain he must have gotten away with a stolen wallet. He was talking to a group of miscreants who had no doubt dared him to try such a criminal act.

Ian came up to him and merely stood uncomfortably close.

"Uh, can I help you?

"Yes," answered Ian, "permit me to pull your nose."

"What the hell?" exclaimed the boy, who started backwards and nearly fell over the bench.

"This boy has insulted me!" Ian yelled loudly.

"Insulted you?" asked a one of the cronies who had been sitting on the bench as well. "When?"

"Just now," answered Ian. "He insulted my mother!"

The thief was thoroughly perplexed, "Your mother!"

"Well, anyhow," conceded Ian, "my aunt."

"You're insane. I haven't done anything!"

"You have! It was something you said!"

The teenagers exchanged looks of total bewilderment.

"He didn't say anything…" they then tried to cover for him, "he was just talking about how he likes…uh…this girl's…voice."

"That's it!" Ian cried. "It was an allusion to my family. My aunt sang very badly. It was a painful subject. We were always being insulted about it."

"I don't get it…are you on drugs?" asked one of the kids.

"No—not at all. And this whole conversation has been filled with sinister allusions to my aunt's weaknesses."

"Are you looking for a fight, you fat bastard?" asked the thief.

"Oh, a clever one, aren't you? Deduce that yourself?"

"That's it!" The self-important posse all leapt to their feet.

Ian responded by tapping his polished cane twice on the concrete. Without warning, he flicked it upwards and pulled up on the knob. Out of the cane, a gleaming silver sword emerged.

"He has a sword!" cried one of the kids. "Run!"

They bolted in every direction, but the thief was caught in between Ian and the bench. The professor lunged forward and collided with the kid, knocking him over backwards. The kid scrambled up to his feet and then also turned to run.

Ian stood still for a moment, sheathed his swordstick, and then turned around with a beaming smile on his face.

Atton then came running up to him with a distraught Twi'lek at his side. He saw no one was there, and exclaimed, "What? Where are they?"

"Oh, they're gone," said Ian.

"What about the wallet?"

"Got it right here," he said, sliding it out of his hand and in between two of his fingers as though it were a playing card. "Two, in fact."

"Two? You stole his wallet?"

"No—another one, belongs to a…drinking buddy."

"Well, whatever."

"Thank you, kind sir!" exclaimed the alien. "I owe you one." He shook Ian's hand and then left in high spirits.

"I see you have a sword," said Atton. "Is that even worth asking about?"

"Not unless you want a fascinating lecture," replied Ian.

"I'll…pass…"

The two returned to the group. Ian gave the wallet to the lost and found and gave them the name and contact information of the alien he had shared drinks with the previous day. No sooner had that happened, than did Nantaris and Dustil return. They had been granted passage, they would leave shortly and return to Coruscant.

* * *

**Notes: **The "thieves respect property" line, as well as the short scene where Ian harasses the kids are adapted from _The Man Who Was Thursday_. A funnier book than I would ever be able to write.


End file.
